


pot and kettle

by thefudge



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Dom!Jughead, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I blame the prompt, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Secret Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, and the bdsm aint that light lol, but not that dark rly, darker jughead, sub!veronica, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 23:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Nobody can know about them. And nobody does.





	pot and kettle

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my Christmas writing challenge (better known as the xmas promo on tumblr), whereby I take 5 ships chosen by my followers and write 5 one-shots. This makes 3/5 (if u wanna check out the rest of them, you can find more info on my tumblr). The specific prompt for this Jeronica oneshot was dom!jughead and sub!veronica with a dash of secret relationships and visible love marks. Sooo, this is all of that lol. I enjoyed writing this so much, like I had a blast, but at the same time I don't know if you'll find it in character or if it makes sense but #itried  
> Oh yes, ignore most of canon, lol. We all do, anyways.

***

 

Betty can’t help a frown as her eyes land on her best friend’s exposed neck.

“V…are those _bruises_?”

Veronica’s fingers flit to her throat. She laughs nervously. “Oh, _no_. That is the result of one sadistic masseur who thought I needed to relax more. _Maman_ and I had a blast at the spa.”

Because that’s her cover for last weekend, why she was MIA. She had a spa day with her mom in New York. It’s not like she was shacked up with a certain Serpent in a trailer park, smoking blunts, reading Robert Lowell and using their teeth as foreplay. No, that’s completely insane.

She curses under her breath. She thought she’d used enough concealer this morning. She wishes she could glare at the culprit. She was enough of a lady to give him marks that are not visible.

“That doesn’t look like a massage, Ronnie,” Archie chimes in, running his hand over Betty’s back fondly.

Veronica suppresses a sigh. Sometimes, she wishes Riverdale’s golden couple didn’t agree on _everything_.

“Right, Jug?” Archie asks, as if it’s really important for the whole gang to concur.

Jughead lowers his book an inch, as if to merely assess the situation. His face is unreadable. In fact, he looks bored. “Let me guess. The masseur’s name just happens to be Reggie Mantle.”

Veronica blanches. Her fingers curl inside her fist. He has some fucking nerve.

Both Betty and Archie dissolve into snickering.

She locks her jaw. 

“He’d be so lucky,” she replies daintily, forcing a smile.

Betty and Archie both agree Reggie has improved vastly since his bullying days. “You could give him a chance, V.”

Veronica clears her throat and quickly changes the subject.

Only she can see the hidden smirk at the corner of Jughead’s mouth before he returns to his stupid Cormac McCarthy.  It's the same hidden smirk he wears in class, sitting behind her, staring at her profile and admiring his handiwork. 

 

 

“ _The Road_ is high-octane garbage. But I wouldn’t expect you to have what we call ‘good taste’.”

Jughead lowers the book as she takes a seat opposite him at lunch.

“You’re just mad because I exposed your secret affair with Reggie in front of everyone.”

Veronica brings the celery stick to her mouth and bites with a vengeance. “Maybe I _should_ give him a chance. I bet he wouldn’t bite me like an Anne Rice stock character.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “You weren’t complaining when I did it.”

“If you didn’t realize, I was in the middle of something.”

“More like in the middle of _someone_ –”

She chokes on her water, but he doesn’t have time to savor his quip because the rest of the gang, including Kevin and Josie, plops down in the seats around them, giving them curious looks.

Jughead pretends to be riveted by his book, while Kevin beats Veronica on the back.

“You okay, V?”

“Peachy,” she coughs and plunges her stiletto heel into Jughead’s sneakers under the table.

His lips go a little white and he has to hold on to the edge for support. But no one around them notices anything.

 

 

He texts her later that day.

_If I have to amputate this leg, you’re paying for the surgery._

_Don’t be such a baby. I barely touched you._

_I have a hole in my foot, Veronica. A hole._

_Snitches get stitches, as the saying goes._

_Doesn’t apply here since I don’t even have stitches._

“What are you smiling about, mija?” Hermione inquires as she strolls into the foyer.

Veronica puts her phone away. “Oh, nothing at all.”

 

 

 

“You know that episode from _Arrested Development_ where Julia Louis-Dreyfus asks Michael Bluth his name and he says “Cute story…” because she’s the prosecutor who is handling his family’s case? But she thinks that’s his _actual_ name and from then on he has to pretend to be Michael Cutestory?”

Veronica props herself on her elbows. “Chareth, actually.”

“Huh?”

“His other made-up name was Chareth. He had to pretend he was Chareth Cutestory. That was his full alias. Please try to be accurate.”

The sheet glides off her back as she reaches for the glasses on the nightstand. Jughead huffs a frustrated sigh. Veronica always likes to rectify his pop culture references. He honestly hates that about her. He runs his thumb spitefully down her spine. That’s how much he hates it. And then, because he’s that guy, he cups her ass. And gives it a playful slap. 

Veronica wriggles her butt and smirks. It’s not exactly an invitation, but she wouldn’t mind if he did it again. He remembers that afternoon when he spanked her until the flesh was apple red because he’d had a bad meeting with the Ghoulies and she wanted to help him vent.  So she taunted him, telling him to stop pussyfooting, go harder, _harder_ , _unless you can’t do it, huh? Is that it? What kind of Serpent king are you? Pathetic._

He’d taken her over his lap, enjoying the feel of his palm against her pert ass, getting drunk on her cries and whimpers. She’d loved it. By the end of it, she was so wet he forgot about their role-playing and sank his face between her thighs. She came against his mouth with a strangled cry.

“I only let you do this to me,” she’d murmured afterwards in his ear making his dick twitch all over again.

It was true. What he’d learned about Veronica Lodge these past few months was that she loved relinquishing control to him and him alone. It was her way of coping with the demands of her family and the expectations of being a Lodge in Riverdale. And whenever he remembered this little fact he couldn’t help smiling like an idiot.  

Like now.

Veronica prods him in the ribs. “Did you have a point with all of this?”

“Oh…yeah. We’re Chareth Cutestory.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, we’re Michael stuck with playing Chareth Cutestory. We’re in too deep to tell anyone the truth.”

Veronica considers his words. “You’re right. Where would we even start?”

 

 

At first, they didn’t tell anyone because they felt it was a really bad idea. For one, Hiram Lodge would’ve hunted Jughead for sport and then thrown his body into a ditch (which he almost did anyway, no need to stoke that fire). For another, FP and the rest of the Serpents had very good reasons for holding a grudge against the Lodges. Not to mention, Archie and Betty would have been weirded out to find out they’d indirectly enabled the tryst. It wasn’t their fault that Veronica and Jughead started hanging out out of spite, wallowing in each other’s misery because only they understood what it was like to be cast aside for America’s sweethearts. But that was the truth. They felt rejected and alone and somehow _wrong_.

“Do you think people can ever change?” she’d asked him once.

They were pretty sure they couldn’t. There would always be a part of them that was slightly awry. It didn’t matter that they came from completely different backgrounds. There was a commonality. Maybe it was shitty teenage angst. Maybe it was premature existential despair. When they discovered it wasn’t the only thing they had in common…things sort of escalated.

At first, they were just pity friends. Then they became each other's second-hand rebound. 

Soon, they got in the habit of leaving books in each other’s lockers and texting late in the night about Akira Kurosawa movies, and furiously making out behind the Wyrm, right next to the dumpsters. They were trying to eat each other’s face, or spit in each other’s mouth, whichever came first. It was electrifying and messy and also weirdly domestic. When her mother and father were out of town, which thankfully happened quite frequently, they’d spend all day in her bed, watching _The Golden Girls_ and cuddling.

As time went on, the secrecy developed a flavor. Especially because there were aspects to their relationship that they could never really communicate with others.

Like the fact that sometimes after watching an episode of _The Golden Girls_ , Jughead would tie her up to her bed and wouldn’t let her come until she begged. Or that he sometimes liked to shred her designer dresses, slowly and methodically, while she laughed with tears in her eyes.  

“God, that Bea Arthur really gets me going,” he’d mutter in her ear as he ripped off a strapless Dior along with her panties, and she’d squeal because he was such a _dork_ but also a dickhead, and it really worked for her.

Jughead argued that destroying her wardrobe was his version of "direct action".

"I'm literally eating the rich," he teased, kissing the inside of her thigh, and she hated and loved him for that stupid pun. 

It was a shock to both of them to discover that they were drawn to weakness and power. Jughead was hardly a dominant figure in real life, despite his leverage with the Serpents, despite his dark streak. And Veronica? She deplored fragility, could not even swallow the concept of surrendering. Her façade was always diamantine.

Yet when she rode him in secret in the back of FP’s car and she lifted his hand to her throat and invited him to squeeze and she felt the air softly leaving her lungs as he worked his grip, she embraced that part of her that did not need to be anything but alive.

  

 

“I’m just gonna go grab my order from the back,” he tells Pop as he lifts the counter top and stalks into the kitchen. No one bats an eyelid since he always makes himself at home. That's his greatest asset, appearing innocuous, even a little pitiable. 

“You know, things are going to change around here,” Veronica muses as he pushes her up against the wall. “Now that I am the proud owner of this establishment you’re not allowed to trespass anymore.”

“Sorry, didn’t catch any of that. Your Mildred Pierce ensemble is too distracting,” he mutters, toying with the hem of her apron. He never knew that this particular shade of mustard is his favorite. He starts kissing the side of her neck as his hand drags the skirt up her thigh. Veronica briefly closes her eyes, but then opens them because _someone_ needs to keeps a watch-out while they’re being two reckless idiots.

“ _Ow_!  You imbecile.”

Of course. Of course he bit her in the exact same spot. And it was just starting to heal.

 

 

His eyes follow her almost apologetically as she struts between booths, taking orders. She doesn’t mean to walk like that, but with him staring while pretending to type at his interminable novel (which must be a trilogy by now), she can’t help swaying her hips a little. She also makes sure to glare at him every time he tries to ask her for food.

“Sorry, we’re out of meat,” she drawls sweetly, stacking up cheeseburger plates against her elbow.

Later, he helps her clean up as a way to make up for his lack of gallantry.

Somehow they end up in a mop battle. From the outside it looks like a Star wars fan film that did not have enough money for lightsaber props.

“Prepare to die, my foolish pad-wan.”

She laughs hysterically. “In what universe would I be _your_ pad-wan?”

"Please, I taught you everything you know." 

She is outraged and attacks swiftly, losing herself in the make-belief. 

They only stop when they catch a few onlookers outside the diner, even if it’s past closing time. Jughead lowers the mop. He recognizes a few of his Serpents.

His stomach drops. “Oh.”

Veronica quickly picks up the mop and bucket and hurls them both at his scrawny frame, trying to school her features into a scowl. 

It has to look like an actual fight and not, you know, two kids having fun.

Jughead groans. "Fuck. Was that necessary?" 

"The bucket may have been overkill," she admits. 

He’s completely soaked and smells like a sewer rat, but he can't help a chuckle. 

“All’s fair in love and Star Wars,” he grumbles, picking up his backpack.

Veronica doesn’t really register the ‘love’ part until she’s falling asleep on the soda-sticky couch down in the speakeasy.

After that, she can’t sleep at all.

 

 

Jughead has one of her breasts in his mouth but still has room to talk to her, which she finds preposterous.

“Mmff…you could…fmfff stay…mfff with me…”

Veronica sighs, arching her body into his mouth. “Could - you - focus?" 

"Mmfff...multi-tasking..."

"Your father -" she sucks in a breath as his tongue swirls around her nipple, "would eventually - catch on there’s a third person - living in your cupboard – sorry, _trailer_ home.”

For that remark alone, he bites into her breast, tugging at the nipple with his teeth until her toes are curled against the couch and she’s whimpering and crying out, “Jughead, _please_.”

 

 

“I can’t believe you brought that into my speakeasy,” she drawls, flicking the battered copy of _The Road_ from the coffee table.

Jughead pulls her back into his arms.

“You’re such a snob.”

“Pot calls kettle.”

“Pot _and_ kettle.”

“Is that what we are? Two sad kitchen appliances?” she muses, nuzzling his neck.

Jughead tips her chin up. Her eyes are tear-stained. He feels this sudden urge to step on Hiram Lodge for even blinking in his daughter’s direction.

He feels some grim satisfaction that they fucked right on top of his desk that one time they were feeling particularly adventurous.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing his thumb against her cheek. “One day we’ll graduate to colander and cutting board.”

Veronica smiles. “You’re an idiot.”

“Possibly. But you’re still going to get on your knees for me later,” he mumbles in her ear because this is their shtick, this is what they’re about, and if they must have a formula, they are going to _nail_ it.

She gets on her knees for him and everything else disappears. Gun to his head, he doesn't even recall his name anymore. 

 

 

At Cheryl’s annual pool party, Reggie makes an attempt to ask her out. He’s endearingly circumspect about it, trying to sound like it just dawned on him she might be single.

Jughead walks by in his wife-beater and boxer briefs and she can’t help but wonder what the hell she sees in him.  

On top of that, the bastard is so sure of himself, he stares at Reggie with pity rather than jealousy.

Veronica bristles. Maybe he needs to be reminded how lucky he is.

She flashes a brilliant smile at the hopeful jock. “How about you take me for a swim?”

She plays water polo with Archie and Betty while sitting atop Reggie’s shoulders, his head between her legs.

Jughead watches from a distance, seemingly unimpressed, eyes narrowing every time Reggie’s hands grip her thighs.

 

 

Veronica shuts the bathroom door behind her and turns the lock.

She rests her back against the wood.

Jughead is slouching in the clawfoot bathtub like the clichéd outcast in a teen movie. He glares at her and sounds genuinely pissed when he says, “Someone’s been a bad girl.”

Veronica grins.

“Very bad.” 


End file.
